Lullaby
by Karen Kannabilly
Summary: Pitch Black x Reader. You bend dreams to your will, plauged by no other option of dream but lucid, turning them into Nightmares for the thrill. Is it really markedly surprising the Nightmare King takes an interest in you? New chapters added soon.
1. Lullaby

**A\N: **_**Okay so... my first attempt at a Character x Reader fic.**_

_**Title comes from "Lullaby" by The Cure. Full effect? Listen on loop while you read. Or, don't. I'm not the boss of you.**_

**...**

Nightmares.

The waves, tortuous and incredible combinations of mingling emotions, all slamming into you, washing over parts of you that were not in actuality physically solid or really _there_ but could still _feel_ the intensity and power of it. The trickle of an absolutely strange but nonetheless existing excitement in manifesting a fear, in toying with it just to see it play itself out in your created realm of dream.

Of controlling it.

Lucid dreaming. Your curiosity over yourself, your habit, had gotten the better of you, and you'd dared to look for a name, after considering the idea it had gone by one. The ability to control your dreams, to recognize when you are dreaming, to will yourself to slip into a lucid level of unconsciousness; a place between being awake, and being asleep, and so on, you'd read. Different articles littered with various amounts and kinds of information, some of it contradicting, some of it falling perfectly into the rhythm you knew to be true, firsthand.

Regardless.

You controlled your dreams, bent what you considered to be another_ world_ of sorts in your mind to your will, created and diminished ideas and beings. Unlike a lot of people to speak about lucid dreaming, however, you didn't appear to control whether or not you had lucid dreams. You always had them. There was no sleep wherein the dream would not be lucid or become lucid, no nap you partook in that didn't breathe that feeling of weightlessness, floating.

It started as a "tingle", the static-associated feeling of limbs that have fallen asleep, slithering over your skin, your head and arms, your very _teeth_ contained this slowly-immersing tingling either the immediate moment you'd slipped into sleep or after little less than minutes of normal dream. Once covered in tingles, the pleasant static, floating would imbue- a lightness in your guts that defied gravity and any logic known to you of being physically planted firm to the ground during movement. Your own special disconnect from the universe.

Even more special to you were the _places_ these dreams took you, the things they allowed you to explore. The dark creases in the world, fiction and otherwise, you encountered during your state of being awake. Things that elicit fear and devastation. Dark, but richly thrilling, heart racing euphoria you painted. Nightmares were fun. Interesting, exciting, giving way to new ideas and thought, new yearning and caution; for you, nightmares were preferred. Intentional.

This, however, was _not _one of your usual desensitized delights.

You didn't recall going to sleep, or the feeling that signaled dream coming over you- this had occurred before, but that was rare. And the lack of weightlessness made you unsure of what state of being you were currently in.

Swirling in what you'd come close to mistaking as insects painted into existence out of black sludge, the man had appeared and _chuckled_ at you with a malicious octave. Eyes glinting with gold, oddly handsome face tilting in mock inquiry. Eyebrowless, pale-skinned, thin and cloaked in black attire; his countenance struck the atmosphere of your dark room with a sense of stillness and danger, the blue-tinted moonlight your only source of sight. You stared, your breathing slow, voice caught in your throat. The situation was so... _unreal_ that you possessed no legitimate idea of what was an appropriate reaction.

"Hm," another chuckle, presumably at your shocked silence, his eyes closing briefly but opening again as he added, "aren't you up at an unusual hour. I take it you can see me."

Two things that should have been questions, but came from this man as amused, if not half-bored, statements. You exhaled a shaky breath, louder than you'd intended, your eyes slightly watering from the lack of blinking. It wasn't a dream- you weren't bringing this about, shaping or controlling. And that _realness_, in his ambiguity, the uncertainty of who or _what_ he and his intentions were, was _scary_. It was made all the more alarming when your name rolled off his tongue, gently caressed by a slight English-curved inflection prickling with an almost seductive nature. It pinched at you, forced relevance back into your vocal chords.

"Wh...who are you?" You swallowed, cursing yourself absent-mindedly at the stutter you caught in your voice.

In response the man moved closer to the edge of your bed- more or less gliding as if he were on ice rather than walking. Leaned down with that same _impossibly smooth_ movement, making you press your back rigidly into the wall behind you.

"You obviously believe in me, (name). Take a guess."

Confusion stirred within you. You sat responseless, eyebrows furrowed over wide, asking eyes. His own eyes, those unusual dark orbs brightly lined with contrasting gold, lidded in what appeared a sleepy expression, but his smirk widened and nearly split his face into, pointing, rather, at amusement. His words began to flow, still seductive and velvety, half whispered with such _calmness_, like he were trying to lull and reassure you. Snaking closer all the while. A scream rising up, building itself, inside you while you tensed.

"You have quite the penchant... I love to watch what you can _do_, little one. Such..." Maybe sensing the scream that was threatening to spill from you, a gaunt hand abruptly slid forward and pressed a cold palm flatly down over your lips as you inhaled sharply through your nose, jerked your body back into the wall with a dull sting to your shoulder blades. "_Pretty_ nightmares."

Your insides now whirled with raw alarm, fingers trying to dip into the tightly sealed cracks of his hand in order to pry it from your mouth. A scream would most likely be worthless against this creature, but something in you drove toward it, putting the ill possibility of a grisly death aside for the need to release a shrill and shattering scream. Your writhing began to make you feel pathetic, your nerves all flooding with heightened (yet, in the same instance, numbed) sense. He put an end to it, pushing against your mouth even harder to hold your head against the wall, facing him without motion. He brought his free hand to his own face, lithe pointer digit hovering in front of his briefly pursing lips.

"Shhh," his neck craned forward, dangerously close to your face. "If I were going to harm you, I'd have already done it."

He pulled his neck back slightly, pupils sliding to the side, as if in thought. When they moved back to your face, his expression remained somewhat unsure. "Pitch Black."

Your brows furrowed downward again, a muffled "eh?" escaping. The glimpse of what gleamed as uncertainty from him had weirdly drizzled a calm over you. His palm relaxed against your lips, the removed pressure a further relief.

"My _name_, you asked for it."

Pitch Black?

How... dark. Almost trying too hard to be so, insufficient at doing the living terror this guy had just struck into you any justice, lacking creativity, _lacking_ so much, but somehow being so unsurprising and fitting. It amused you a little. Not enough to bring you off edge completely, but certainly enough to help your muscles lax up more.

Pitch evidently noticed this, and in turn removed his hand completely, but let the tips of his fingers graze down your bottom lip for a lingering second.

"_What_ are you?" You asked, forcing a pseudo confidence and demand in your voice.

His answer, dipped in those same ever-calming octaves but with a hint of pride this time, was simple and dubious. You _almost_ snorted, until the pieces meshed and gathered in a perfect fit.

"The Boogeyman."

In none of the stories you'd busied yourself consuming over the years had the Boogeyman been depicted with Pitch's appearance; handsome in a way that oozed bad boy rather than _monster_. The association you'd made with boogers and nasty hobgoblin things that weren't at all aesthetically pleasing flashed around in your mind. You tilted your own head up at him, repeating his answer aloud to yourself. But...

"Why're you _here_?"

His smile returned, pointing a finger so close that it almost touched the tip of your nose. "Your little _talent_. Sandman's attempts to instill joy in the older youths seems to be ineffective here. Without my interference."

"_Sandman_?" You found yourself giggling, fear forgotten. "Are all the white lies from parents and age-old myths _real_?"

Pitch growled at this, leering in closer to your face, making your skin flush lightly at how precariously near his lips were. "You do it on purpose- you create nightmares on your own. I've watched and _felt_ you doing it. I am here because of that. And because it could prove useful."

"Useful?" You felt his breath tickle your face, scentless and lukewarm.

"You like making nightmares, (name), I know you do," His tone was coaxing. "Just imagine the nightmares _we_ can make."

As if on cue, a small form slid into view over the point of his shoulder; viscous-appearing black soot trailing around its graceful trotting. An ebony horse, red eyes glowing as it gave a soft neigh in your direction. "A whole fleet of the beautiful, dark things you're so _very_ capable of manifesting. Nightmares like this, but much more _exciting_."

A fragment of the original fear you'd felt from Pitch's presence worked its way back into your chest and gnawed your ribs watching the Nightmare ghost its way to you, resting its muzzle on your arm. Its touch was so icy that it stungyour flesh, but its affectionate rubbing and half-neighs elicited an odd warmth and a devious-feeling want in you to _welcome it_.

"Maybe." You answered, the reality more than surreal. Too outlandish to accept. He impatiently cupped his fingers under your chin, drawing your face and attention back to him.

"Constant excitement is what I'm offering, little one."

Were you really about to trust the Boogeyman?

"For what reason?"

Pitch sighed, breathing on you again, began slowly. "The Dark Ages."

"Yes?"

"Belief in me was exponential, as was fear in me. Nightmares." He paused as if frustrated, tired of knowing the story. "Long, lonely tale, little creature. If I can bring about that belief in me again..."

"Hm?" He'd trailed off, making you fidget. The subject appeared touchy, and you felt a slight guilt for asking. Less than actually wanting to know more to make your decision, you subconsciously sought to take his mind off of whatever seemed to cause him a palpable sadness of some sort. "Maybe, I said. What would I... have to do?"

His face lit up, determination to coax you into his plans plastered there again. "What you love, I've already mentioned this. Create your nightmares. But, _share_ them."

"With?"

A devilish chuckle. "Brats."

Children. Very _unsurprising_. Not that it particularly bothered you to an immense extent, he wasn't throwing little kids out of two-story windows or anything. But he definitely wasn't being helpful toward them, either.

Then again. Boogeyman.

Nonetheless, you responded prodding at its obvious negativity, "That sounds kind of like a dick move."

His hairless brow dipped down in a furrow, mouth thinning into a flat line. Unamused, and highly so.

"As much of a _dick move_," His tone placed a mocking emphasis on your choice of words, though the words didn't seem to fit in his mouth, "as it is, I'm sure you'll come to find great joy in it. You'll get to see how powerful your creations really are in their reactions."

You considered this. Found yourself drawn to it entirely, in fact, but still felt the tugging of how strange it all was. Looking down at the Nightmare's expectant eyes, you uttered a drawn out, "Mmmmaaaaaybeee..."

He huffed, glaring, along with the Nightmare. His expression was knotted- not wounded, but contorting with the ink of anger, howbeit calm his voice persisted. "You will."

The conviction stood significantly in your, you were sure, already scattered mind. He was not asking, but herding. Herding you into the idea to, you assumed, make the ordeal more pleasant. If you said no...

"I would have to anyway."

Pitch's lips curled upward. "Your ability is something that _must_ be on my side, little one."

The 'little one' nickname he'd stuck to was beginning to leave marks and fluster your thought. Though it was probably added for manipulative purposes. Ignoring it, "What other side is there, Boogeyman?"

The skin by his nose kinked up in a vague sneer. "_Pitch_," He corrected. "And that can all be explained in length later. When we are both ready to begin."

"And how long will _that_ take?"

Pitch gave you an exasperated expression. "You ask far too many questions. The amount of time isn't really of much importance, considering you'll be _immortal_."

This stirred up a strong protest in you, a new slew of confusion and questions, _so_ much uncertainty. Pitch's content with mentioning this as more of an afterthought also raised the red flag. "Wait! Immortal? As in, I'm an undead _vampire_-type of immortal or a _restless soul_-type of immortal or... how does that even _work_? Wha-"

His fingers clamped over your mouth again. "For someone who loves to surround themselves with fear and the exploration of strange things, you genuinely panic too much. You don't have a choice, so just enjoy the ride, (name)."

He removed his hand, orbs focusing on you with a curious look. "Resume your usual fun. I've enjoyed watching it myself for a very long time. It's quite the forte... you should be proud."

Again, the heat of blood under your face. Pitch was far too alluringly devious, too maliciously attractive. A slight, very _weird_ romantic interest in him, or maybe just the _possibility_ of such a leaning, already poking at the back of your mind, childishly. Naïve, but refusing to be ignored. All interesting- but also profoundly difficult in its swiftness.

"And we'll just hang out in the abyss, or ether, or whatever the hell it is where you _reside_ out of the world for_ever_?"

"You won't _leave _the wo-... stop asking. The questions."

"How can I not ask you questions? How did you just figure this wouldn't be completely insane to me?"

"Oh, how shocking. You're going to keep asking things."

...Did the Boogeyman just get _snarky_ with you?

"You're 'promising constant excitement,' but immortality has to get old at some point." You rubbed your face, a headache forming. Drowsiness. Pitch Black. Immortality. Nightmares. All at once. Throwing your patterns of sleep, dream and general being.

"Don't doubt me." He brushed an unexpected hand over your forehead, removing strands that were amiss and making you jump. "Rest. I'll leave you to it."

You started a protest again, but the Nightmare swirled round your face, nudging and neighing an interruption before vanishing. Your eyelids felt burdening, heavy, the spin of smoke it'd left behind filling your nostrils and hithering your back to bend and slip reluctantly into flattening completely against comfort. Eying Pitch's disappearing face, the devious smile breaking off into blackness and fleeting away; more swiftness.

For a moment, a worry it was a dream. A normal dream that had eluded you for years, only to give bittersweet torment upon mingling in your unaccustomed sleep...

Why would you be worried? That entire thing was...

Pitch was charming... somehow. An eternity around him wasn't guaranteed as horrid. Pleasing him with what you enjoyed, whereas others found it strange. Pleasing Pitch. Romantic? You didn't think so, wouldn't assume those emotions or wants from either end.

_You hadn't expected any of what had transpired from his end._

Possibility flitted in your head. Pleasing him, either way. It could be nice.

Static ate at your limbs lovingly, took over, assuring you fully that what you were leaving was reality. And you could feel a smile play on your lips.

Pitch waited some hours before deciding to return, and if you were awake he was going to _shake you violently_ out of his own embarrassment.

He couldn't help himself from touching you earlier, even in the forceful covering of your mouth or the slight brushing of your forehead. He hadn't intended to, but could not _help_ it. Watching you quietly, contemplating over how to approach you with his proposition had left him hungry to finally feel the smoothness and warmth of your skin. It was a possessive hunger, one that he dared not clue you in on- or think about extensively with himself; it felt ragged with things he hadn't experienced since he was alive, time upon time ago. They now struck him as foreign, and he didn't know how to go about acting on them anymore. The idea of even acting on them brought a slight ruination to his mind.

Sandman might notice- or, worse, that damn Man In the Moon might alert those Guardians; meddling protectors, ruiners. And then, your ability, and you yourself, would be removed from his possibilities. He wanted to check inand make sure those issues weren't stirring around. He'd also like to see you- but didn't at all want you to infer that. He hoped to find a very asleep you.

And you were asleep. Although, the color his retina rested on made him far less happy.

Pitch blinked, letting his eyes grow wide and his mouth fall into a small, surprised frown.

The sand looked so _wrong_ floating above you in its golden color, an actual dream in place of the tar-esque nightmares he'd become accustomed to feeling a sense of something close to admiration over in your room. For a moment, he felt anger and disappointment flicker in his belly. An instant want to obliterate it, tap it with a single pad of his finger and watch it slick itself in ebony while cursing Sandman's abrupt _success_ over your power, and perhaps regretting making himself known to you; guilt he'd never openly acknowledge, even in his own mind, over the quickly jabbed-at possibility that _he _was the cause of this change in interest from the thrillingly dark to the disgustingly good.

Upon closer examination, however, he couldn't stop a slow, thin smile from forming. A quiet, and strangely _new_, type of chuckle to vibrate in his throat.

The figures that fluently moved, wrapping around and melding together in their silent and glittering dance above you, were familiar visages. Immediately he recognized his own image; lithe particles licking and caressing the makeup of the smaller of the duo hugging against and being picked up by his. Being romanced, being teasingly affectionate.

The Nightmare King watched your dream motionlessly, a rare smile of content living on his face before leaning foward and lightly touching your forehead with his lips, a whisper slipping against your cool skin.

"Sweet dreams, little one."

**...**

_**Rise of the Gaurdians (c) Dreamworks**_

_**Lullaby (c) The Cure**_

_**This writing and cover doodle (c) Me**_

_**Reviews would be delicious pls**_


	2. Always Hungry (Lemon)

a\n

_I literally have not slept in around 32 hours, insomnia and tiredness making it difficult to write so puh-LEASE forgive me if this is terrible._

_**Hey, look here at the bold. It's especially for you.**_

_**This is a lemon- it contains a **__**detailed sex scene**__**. **_

_There, I gave you a warning. _

You lifted your window, having mastered how to silently slide it open, swinging a quick leg out and finding the ground with your boot before fully slipping out and into the windy air and chirping insects that imbued the night. Already you could see Sandman's various extensions of dreams, flowing every which way into different houses lining your street. The beauty of it, a few golden particles floating away with the wind and shining against the darker black and blues of the sky, offered grazing calmness. Regardless of its opposing affiliation.

The more Pitch appeared to you, the more you were able to see things like this, works of the Guardians. You still weren't completely filled in on their details, the nitty gritties, but Pitch's extreme dislike was obvious enough. They were opposites, obstacles, as far as Pitch had concerned you with them. Beings you'd no doubt be facing in _duels_, or something to that effect, alongside him.

_And you were not to go near them_, of that he'd been clear, the usual stream of murky half-explanation breaching the surface and breifly remaining stuck out of the water as he stressed in great depth his forbiddance of _any _type of conversing with or seeking out of them unless _you were specifically told otherwise_, which, as Pitch had even been thoughtful enough to add, would never be requested of you anyway. Never, ever. _Ever._

The crunch of dead leaves that followed your footsteps reverberated through the eerily empty street, the same feeling of being miffed returning to you with the memory. Wagging a finger in your face to add even more emphasis to his directions. Like you were a child he was scolding, and you hadn't even shown interest in the Guardians aside from asking their significance. It was hard to predict Pitch's reactions. Sometimes he was calm, swirling in that air of devious intention that rippled just below his skin- other times he was short. Locked up and cautious to talk, only giving responses that were snapped.

"Go back in."

Speak of the devil.

You looked up, meeting his eyes, watching them threaten to turn into a glare. The order had been firm, but spoken in his soft tone. Annoyance was obvious, but anger had yet to stir up fully. The closer he considered the time to be ripe to "begin", as he'd always put it, the more he was manifesting silently in a space you occupied to prod you away from certain activities- slipping outside alone was a particular grating against his nerves.

Deciding not to test him further, you walked obediently but wordlessly, rolling your eyes and crawling back through the opening.

_Real exciting._

You pressed your fingers into the board to slide it shut, and as an afterthought left it cracked slightly to allow the scent of night to trickle into your room. Your boots tugged off and flippantly thrown to the floor, your pants wriggled from and left bunched up where they'd dropped more out of bordom than the actual intent to change into new clothes. You considered for a moment rummaging through your closet to get an early pick on what you'd dress in to meet your friend tomorrow, but pushed the thought away with more boredom, and a hint of sloth-y tiredness.

The wind flowing into your room tickled your bare legs soothingly, your spine comfortably relaxing into your bed. The ability that had drawn Pitch Black and the recognition of his reality to you in the first place reassuring you as a constantly open option to relieve you. Eyes lidding...

Snapping back open, maybe recognizing the atmosphere of his presence. You sat up with a jerk, quirking up your brows at Pitch.

"It's rude to _roll your eyes_." He commented simply, passing an examining eye over the back of his hand, intentionally leaving you unsure of whether he was teasing or not.

"And you're obviously a very manner-concerned individual." You shot back, pulling the hem of your hoodie down to cover your panties, for whatever reason appearing unwilling to show your flustered concern over it. He chuckled silently at your retort, more through his nose than his mouth, slipping closer and bending down to be at eye-level with you. "When the attitude is directed at _me_, I am, little one."

You looked down, nervously fidgeting with the base of your hoodie with one hand and trying to rub the redness from your cheeks with another. He let his lips fall from the wide and bold curling to a small, soft tug at the corners of his mouth. Want rising up, flitting through his core in interchangeably tiny and large, but ever odd, ripples, as it had done heavily during the last few hours. A tense, invisible barrier between your face and his. The precarious and fragile distance he'd been terrible at keeping in an attempt to snuff out the hunger all summed up by an instant of closeness that shouldn't contain the relevance it seemed to reflect. The recent spasms of annoyance from you egging at him even further to _break_ it, allow that _wonderful_ sandy dream he'd seen you create but left unmentioned to come into existence.

If he obliterated that space...

Your head tilted up on its own accord, he guessed to question the drawn out stillness, and this movement seemed to startle his neck to crane forward and bridge the gap between your lips; placing themselves there albeit awkwardly, the know-how of such an action close to lost over the years.

"..Hmf..." Your surprise faded against his mouth, relaxing, skin hot and flushed, hand raising to hesitantly touch his sleeve. Then a thrilling pressure lightly forming against his lips as you pressed back, returning the affection. His neck stiffened, fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck, absent-mindedly pulling you to lay on your back and allow him to crawl over you. This shift in position, however, pricked needles back into the more possessive and rough aspect of this that had plagued him.

His sharp teeth pinched into your plump bottom lip, your mouth opening in pain and allowing his tongue sudden access, slipping over your own; hands wrapping tightly around your wrists and binding your own hands that were about to push against his tensely advancing body. His linguistic muscle moved from your mouth to your neck, rolling wetly up the skin and causing a shiver to earthquake through you. The chill pushing at him, he ground his hips into yours, the heat and rough fabric that dragged into your most sensitive of parts so _deliciously painful_. Your head reflexively tilted back to let a pleasured and jagged-edged gasp escape you more freely.

"P...itch..." You struggled to speak, breath hitching. "Wha..."

His grip on one of your wrists left, the place where his fingers had pressed around your skin now feeling as if it was disembodied and floating away. The hand that left snaked down between your bodies in one fluid movement, producing another sharp breath to flood from your mouth at the feel of those thin fingers cupping your bare sex. A gravelly laugh rattled in his throat, followed by a one-worded comment; the octaves around it viciously amused and dripping with an intense and blatant lust that shocked you in its palpability as he drew its letters out in a hiss by your ear.

"...W_et_..."

Heat, indeed a wildly hot _fire_, erupted inside your ribcage, traveled down just beneath the skin covering your abdomen and finally curled with licking flames in your sex. You mewed as Pitch's fingertips pressed into your clit, pushing the swelling little nub to and fro with a slowly increasing pressure. Your body twitched as the sensitive nerves were stimulated; rather than pushing against him, you now _gripped_ at him, trying to pull him closer, a profoundly raw and primal _need_ awakened by his risingly heavy panting and rubbing. His hips dragged along the curve of your inner thigh, a rigidly hard bit of flesh evident beneath his clothing. Pitch swallowed audibly, a break between one husky breath and the next. Two long, lithe fingers abruptly pushed into you, pistoning in and out, slicking with wetness. Earning from you a somewhat relieved series of squeaks; there was a _friction_ in this action. A much needed, moving pressure against the walls of your insides that tightened with what seemed to be their very own want for _more_ of that _burning friction_, wishing for something harder, something with more girth to fill yo-

Suddenly aware of the _filthiness_ of your exploding thoughts, your eyes shot open. You saw with vision that was blurred, glazed over with lust. Pitch's lips found your collarbone, sucking noisily, heated puffs of air from his nostrils hitting your flesh and making it prickle into goosebumps as he continued his ragged breathing. The occasional graze of his pointed teeth against the thin layers of skin that occupied the outward-prodding bone sending more flurries of chills over your form. It also heightened the quick work he was doing with his fingers, coaxing you to buck your hips to meet with his pumping digits. This movement of your pelvis became something _needy_, almost violently so, pushing down harder into his knuckles, trying to get his fingers deeper inside to somehow hit even _beyond_ that sweet spot he was already slamming the tips against.

More swiftness. Always swiftness with Pitch. Things occurring abruptly and without much real consideration, but escalating as smoothly as his movements, as smoothly as your lucid dreaming. Perfect in their outcome. Your hands found his cheekbones, bringing his face to yours in a bold and shamelessly messy kiss. His tongue flicked out of his gasping mouth, running over your bottom lip to clean the sliver of spit that had collected there but leaving a counterproductive trail of his own saliva in its place.

His accent flowed out in a breathless whisper, pale face actually tinted in a light flush of crimson, a certain and unusual _sweetness_ to the question and his intensity that made your swarming hormones turn flips. "Do you..._want me_..?"

You could only manage an adamant nod, gulping a poorly-formed amount of spit to try to cure the dryness in your throat that all the open-mouthed and heavy breathing had caused.

"_Say_ it." Force prickled back into Pitch's tone, the demeanor he'd held while he blushed and _asked_ your permission evaporating into itself. His eyes bore into you, the gold in them seeming to glint, as if trying to pull the words from you.

"I... want you..." It came out less than confident, reluctant at the worry that the words would sound awkward or out of place in your voice- but only made so truly by said worry. To reinforce the sentence with the sincerity you felt, you more securely added, "Pitch."

He accepted it in its entirety regardless, groaning faintly into your neck, following it with a nip to the flesh residing there that dredged up a snapping pain. Fingers soaked in your wetness clutched the area of neck directly below your chin, pushing your face back roughly with a dominance as he positioned his hips between your legs, the opposite hand moving to fumble with the clothing that separated his throbbing flesh from yours. An even more enraged fire ignited when his member brushed teasingly against your scantily clad sex, the organ's heat mingling with your own through the thin barrier the fabric provided.

You whimpered his name with a frustration lacing it, shifting your hips, lost in a hateful joy at the way the head of his freed cock felt as it pressed into the wettening cloth. His familiar, devious laugh came in response.

"Not a fan of play?" His own voice trembled with the evident ache at his teasing, and it would have made you laugh were you not so fucking _consumed_ by the wanton fire he'd continued to spit his gasoline on.

"_Please_," you feigned a pout, forcing more mewing, begging sounds. Eager for the "play" to end.

He seemed to relent at your ploy, hovering above you and propping himself up on an elbow. His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them to the side, air hitting the hot skin with a mercilessly cold breeze. That feeling of vulnerability from exposure creeped into you as you felt his eyes resting on your _vulgar_ nudity; not a soft-core, artsy or playful nudity, but your fragile womanhood in _heat_ fully displayed to him. Your leg followed the small but rational throws of this feeling, cocking to the side but unable to lay down and cover yourself as it met with Pitch's hipbone. Unaware of the modest choice your body was making for you, his hand slid over your knee and wrapped the leg halfway around his waist as he curled his neck down, forehead pressing to yours.

The innocent-esque appearance the shape of his eyes had the occasions of giving him beguiled you for a split second before the pain of a slow, relished penetration was immediately apparent, a jerky exhale lined with grunting dips blowing from between his bared teeth. You held your own breath, the sound of it snagging against your vocal chords evident, as he slipped into your inferno and began to jerk his hips forward with deliberate thrusts, each hitting a deliriously higher note of friction. Your nails dug into his neck, dragged through his spiked black hair, begging for an even harsher movement; Pitch reciprocated, sliding an angrily groping hand up your hoodie and squeezing your breast, nipple pinched between the pads of his fingers, slamming himself into the apex of where you most _ached_, his member swelling further as he buried himself in you and pressed into your pulsing heat. The shock wave of an orgasm wracked you, mushing your face into his cloak to muffle the scream that refused to be bitten back, every muscle in your body tightening and flexing as you felt your release leave you and soak him; his own climax signaled by a rough groan caged by gritting teeth, the warmth of cum jolting against your relaxing insides.

An immediate tiredness bathed your body as you flatted against your bed, breathing so sharply it stung your throat and heart. Pitch shared these intense pants, but did not move, remaining inside of your sprawled and limp figure.

"I..." you breathed and licked your lips, every inch of you filled with exhaust.

"Tomorrow," He interrupted, resting his sharp chin on your shoulder. "Tomorrow night, little one, you'll be eternal with me. You and your nightmares."

You stared at his image, watching it go fuzzy through your sleepiness, barely feeling the kiss he pecked against the tip of your nose. _Eternal with you._

"No longer a _lonely_ story, though perhaps still a long one." He continued to _coo_, his smooth voice lulling you closer to dream.

_**...**_

You stretched your groggy limbs, the tingle in your body fading as your lids flickered open. You stared with no real interest at your wall.

The last day of being... mortal? Alive. Human. None of the words seemed to articulate it correctly to you; just... _last day_.

Your eyes then rested on your window, the patter of rain audible through the left-open crack in it; water making itself known below, turning the carpet it dripped itself on darker versions of the original color.

You'd forgotten to close it after-

A slight soreness wavered through your groin in an uncomfortable and sudden jolt of dull pain during the movement you'd employed in stepping toward the window. Putting your previous mission on hold, you walked, or rather inadvertently made the motions of more closely resembled _limping_, to your bathroom, flicking the light on hurriedly to examine your reflexion. You felt heat flash under your cheeks, the sight of red blotches littering your collarbone, toothy indents marking themselves the same color very visible on your neck.

After the initial laughter and refusal to leave your room until you allowed her to further examine the evidences of sex painted and pressed onto your skin, your friend executed the inevitable question.

"_Who_ did you romp around with?"

You thought for a moment, the truth so impossible to tell, but the idea conjuring a smile as you nudged her with your elbow. Eyebrows raised and voice giving way to a playful atmosphere, your answer pulled a snorting laugh and a, "No, but _seriously_, (name)!" from her.

"The Boogeyman."

_Sorry for the secks._

_Ended up being much more explicit than I'd intended originally~_


End file.
